With This Ax of Mine
by L-chan the Great
Summary: Spain will always protect what's precious to him with his trusty ax, but sometimes it seems to do more harm than good to those dear...  Rated T for blood, violence, and language.
1. Chapter 1

**I know, I know. What the heck am I doing writing a third story when I already have two going? Well, the plot bunnies got me, so blame them. Ahaha. This isn't the story I meant to write tracing Spain's long, long life. I'm going to write that once I finish my Naruto fanfic. Which will take a little while, since I'm getting busier. At least I'll have a lot more time to study up on Spanish history, si?**

**This is probably going to be 3 to 4 chapters long. I just really wanted to write a story with Conquistador!Spain.**

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><p>Spain couldn't remember the last time he felt this bad.<p>

The brunette nation groaned, screwing his eyes shut as a wave of nausea passed over him. His economy was definitely going down the drain. It was probably his current boss's fault, who loved to spend money on frivolous things, and he hated it. Normally, Spain wouldn't care much about it—after all, he loved expensive things as well—but the fact was, his boss was spending money the country didn't have.

There was a small knock on the door before it was pushed open. Spain turned his head to squint at whoever came into the room, irritated that he had to deal with company when he felt so sick.

That irritation quickly evaporated when he saw his little henchman, waddling awkwardly into the room so as not to disturb the unnecessarily large bowl of steaming soup he was carrying. The soup was obviously heavy, and Romano's thin arms trembled under its weight.

"Ah, Romano~!" Spain exclaimed, struggling to sit up. He suppressed a groan when the movement upset his stomach.

The tiny Italian took a couple steps forward, then stopped to regain his balance. "I made you some tomato soup, because you're sick and all," Romano mumbled, so that Spain had to strain to hear the words.

Spain gave a weak smile. He couldn't see his henchman's face behind the large bowl (did he always have such a large dish at his house?), but he imagined it was bright red with embarrassment. "Aw, you cooked something for me? Que linda~!" he said, touched by the offering.

Romano had stopped again to regain his balance. The soup tipped precariously in his arms, and a couple drops of the red soup spilled out to the ground. "Sh—shut up, dammit! It's not because I care about you, bastard! It's just that…" He paused as he tried to come up with an excuse. "It's just because there's no one to clean my room if you're being lazy!"

"Ahaha, isn't that something you should do by yourself anyway, Romano?" Spain pointed out, amused.

"J—just get better, dammit! Stupid bastard!" the Italian exclaimed, sounding more flustered after Spain's gentle teasing.

The bedridden nation gave another weak laugh. "Watch your language, Roma," he scolded lightly, the effect diminished by Spain's upbeat (and sickly) tone.

Before Romano could retort, his feet managed to discover whatever tiny, nonexistent crack there was in the smooth floors. He crashed to the ground, dropping the bowl to catch himself before he fell hard. By some miracle, the monstrous bowl itself remained upright and unbroken, and only skidded across the floor, leaving a trail of steaming red liquid in its wake.

Spain quickly got out of bed, fighting the dizziness that attacked him for his efforts. Romano cried out in pain from the burning soup that spilled down his front. As Spain went to inspect his injured henchman, he noted some light burns on Romano's skin and stains covering the maid costume the Italian wore.

The maid outfit was forced on poor Romano, in some futile hope that it would make him more like his capable brother. Unlike Austria, though, Spain was very aware that Romano was a boy, and not a girl. His henchman had made it very _very_ clear that he was a boy. So Spain made silent fun of Austria as soon as the painful bruises on his shins healed.

"Are you ok, Romano?" Spain asked.

He saw Romano's lip tremble, eyes filled with tears, before the Italian hid his face behind tiny fists.

"Damn it, I'm fine!" Romano said, his voice shaking with the effort it took to hold back his sobs.

Spain froze, his hands hovering over Romano, as if afraid to touch him and injure his henchman worse than he already war.

"Romano? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Why are you crying?" he asked, breathlessly, his own woes momentarily forgotten, replaced by concern for the upset Italian.

"Nothing!" Romano wailed. "I'm just angry! I worked so hard on that damn soup for you and it's all ruined now!"

The older nation visibly relaxed. So that was it. Romano was just frustrated that his little act of kindness would go unnoticed. Relieved that Romano wasn't hurt, Spain stroked his head gently.

"Don't worry about it, Roma," he reassured the Italian gently. "There's still plenty of soup in the bowl. I'll eat that, and clean up this mess."

Romano looked up at him, pouting. His eyes still shone with unshed tears. "But you're sick, and I'm the one who's supposed to take care of you, bastard," he said stubbornly.

Spain laughed and pressed a comforting kiss to Romano's forehead. "Don't worry about it! I'm not too sick to do something as simple as wiping the floor! You go clean yourself up, ok?" he insisted brightly.

The personification of South Italy looked unsure. "I guess…" he said in a low voice, sounding like a petulant child.

"Yes, go! I'll have it cleaned up soon, so I can eat some of this delicious soup~!" Spain told him with a smile.

Romano flushed a little at the look on Spain's face. He looked away, embarrassed. "I—idiot! You don't have to say it's delicious if you haven't even tried it!" Realizing what he said, Romano quickly corrected himself. "I mean, not that it's bad! I made it, so of course it's very awesome!"

"Ahaha, of course~!" Spain agreed with a nod. "Now go, and send Belgium in with some towels, ok?"

The command caused Romano to look at him suspiciously. "You'll let her help you, but not me?" he asked, the hurt plain in his voice.

Spain jumped to remedy the situation. "No, I just need her to bring me a steady supply of towels! I need it to clean all this soup up, right?" He indicated the huge mess. Tears jumped to Romano's eyes as he was reminded of the problems he caused, so Spain hurried on. "You need to get yourself cleaned up while we do this, and I'm too sick to call Belgium in myself, so you're the only one who can do this! Got it?"

Romano thought about it for a moment. Then he gave a large grin that lit up his entire face and twisted Spain's heart from the cuteness of it all. "Got it! I can do this! Just watch me!" And with that, Romano dashed out of the room, calling for Belgium.

Spain chuckled softly. His henchman was such a kid. Sighing, he got up from the ground to collapse on the bed.

Belgium poked her head through the open door, knocking to get his attention. "Are you alright, Spain? Romano came into my room shouting about how you desperately need my assistance and a _lot _of towels." She giggled at the thought. "It was so cute how he was so excited about it."

"Yeah, he worked really hard to make me some soup, and spilled it all over the ground." Spain leaned over to pick up the bowl, now only half-filled with soup.

"Oh dear, that's a lot," Belgium said, half in awe over the sheer amount of liquid that covered the ground.

Spain laughed weakly. "It's nice that he tried so hard for my sake, though," he admitted. He sipped at the soup, grimacing at the taste. "Too much salt."

Belgium mopped up the mess. "I can make you some chicken soup instead, if you want," she offered, giving him a warm smile.

He shook his head. "No, I'll eat what Romano made me," he said, before tipping the bowl and partially chugging its contents.

"Ah, why? You don't like it," she said, watching as he fought to keep the soup in his stomach. "If you dump it out, Romano wouldn't know."

Spain shook his head again, panting from the exertion of lifting the heavy bowl. "I'd know. It wouldn't be fair to little Roma, after he spent so much time trying to make me feel better," he said.

Belgium smiled. "He's a cute little nation, isn't he?" She giggled. "Except he's a little hopeless. Not like his younger brother."

"Don't let him hear you say that. He has a huge inferiority complex when you compare him to Ita-chan. Romano just doesn't realize how amazing he is in his own way," Spain said, smiling fondly as he thought of his charge.

The blond nation only laughed softly and took the empty bowl from him. She piled the used towels inside so she'd only have to make one trip. "You talk about him so proudly, even though you always have to clean up after him," she said.

Spain nodded absently. "I'm really glad Austria gave him to me. He's special to me."

Belgium smiled sadly. "I can tell. I'm a little jealous," she admitted, mostly jokingly.

Spain looked at her guiltily. "Belgium, I'm really sorry," he said. He knew Belgium loved him dearly, and felt bad that he couldn't return her feelings.

She only shrugged it off with a breezy laugh. "No, it's fine. It's not your fault! Just take care of Roma-chan, ok?" With a wink, she turned and left the room.

When she was gone, Spain laid back to deal with the queasiness in his stomach. The too-salty soup didn't help it much, but at least the warmth had soothed his scratchy throat somewhat. He wished his boss would just sell some of his things already, or do something to improve the economy, so that he could get over his cold soon and stop burdening his henchmen.

He thought for a while about Romano's progress. When the Italian first arrived in Spain's house, he was bitter and argumentative. He took every opportunity to fight Spain, often getting pulled into conspiracies with the Netherlands. Spain had worried that he would have another dangerously disobedient colony on his hands, and for that reason begged Austria to trade Romano for sweet little Italy.

Afterward, he felt horrible about it. Although Romano claimed he was upset with Spain only because the house was too big to find the bathroom (which was true), Spain later found the rude South Italian persona sobbing into Belgium's skirts over the whole affair. From then on, Spain made extra efforts to make Romano feel more welcome: easing punishments he earned from the small rebellions he did with the Netherlands, making a point in choosing Romano to assist him in various chores (in which Romano took great pride in his performance), and teaching him how to make all sorts of Spanish dishes.

Gradually, the Spaniards work paid off. Romano began attempting to clean parts of the house (even though this usually involved the Italian creating an even bigger mess) and gave Spain small presents, while claiming it was just junk he had lying around (that antique sword was a beauty, and Spain prized it almost as much as his battle ax). Spain smiled warmly at the memories.

And now Romano was even making him soup to help him feel better!

Spain's bright laugh hung in the air and echoed throughout the large room. In the back of his mind, he hoped that the Netherlands hadn't heard it and thought Spain was going insane.

"Roma-chan!"

The scream, faint in the distance, froze the smile on his face. Was that Belgium? He tried to shake off the sudden anxiety that overcame him. It could just be that Romano did something and Belgium shouted out in surprise. That was something his little henchman would do. Even with that knowledge, Spain couldn't rid himself of the foreboding the scream left him with—it sounded as if Belgium was frightened.

"Spain!"

That scream was Romano's. Something was definitely terribly wrong.

In a flash, forgetting about his cold, Spain leapt out of bed. He bent down and snatched his trusty battle ax from beneath his bed in one fluid motion as he dashed from the room. The metallic blade shined in the light, lacking even the tiniest scratch or stain of blood on its meticulously cleaned surface. Glancing down at him, he set his mouth into a line of grim satisfaction. Soon, whoever was disturbing his precious colonies would help him paint the heavy ax a bright, festive red.

Red was such a beautiful, passionate color. Perfect for a beautiful, passionate country such as himself.

In his wild search for Romano and Belgium, he came across three men, huddled together in some discussion. They were common soldiers—but not his, or anyone's he knew not to kill. These were the soldiers of the mystery intruder, probably roaming the house in search of valuable loot.

Silently, he rushed forward, ax poised for a quick strike. Once close enough, he swung a deadly blow, using his own momentum to further the impact of the swing.

He hit true, sinking deep into the neck of the closest man, severing the spine and nearly decapitating the intruder. The new corpse fell, staining the once-cream colored carpet. Spain frowned at the sight.

"How inconsiderate of a guest," he murmured disapprovingly.

The other two men screamed in fright, immediately backing away. They stumbled over each other in their hurry to increase the distance between themselves and the ax-carrying nation.

"S—Spain!" one of them gasped, the blood rushing out of his face at the sight of him.

He gave them a frown of disapproval. "Yes, yes. Who else could be in my house? _My _house," he emphasized, as the frown transformed into a feral snarl.

"Y—y—you're supposed t—to be sick!" the other wailed. As a reward for his (obvious) observation, he received an ax thrust deep into his chest as Spain threw it.

Spain approached the final man, taking hold of the handle and pulling the ax effortlessly from the second corpse's chest. He gave a dark, child-like smile—one that put even Russia to shame. The terrified human stared at him, frozen with fear.

"Yes, I am sick. It's not polite to impose on someone who isn't feeling well," Spain chided, then made quick work of the soldier.

He regarded the blade, splashed with red, with a careful gaze. No, his three victims hadn't been enough. Spain was still able to see his reflection in the metal.

"Spain, you bastard, come rescue me already!" Romano's trusting voice carried to his ears, snapping him out of his thoughts. That's right, he thought, there was still Belgium and Romano to save.

Following the source of the call, he found his living room swarming with soldiers. Belgium was nowhere in sight, but Romano was held tightly by one soldier, who winced as the Italian's feet beat at his stomach.

"Damn kid! Stop moving!" Spain heard the captor command as he struggled with Romano.

"I'm not a kid, bastardo! Put me down! Spain!" Romano called out again. "You better save me, bastard, or I'll kill you!"

That was all Spain needed to hear as he made his dramatic appearance on the scene. He slashed a clear pathway until he reached his henchman, and cut away the nuisance with ease. Human soldiers were weak compared to a nation's strength.

Romano was dropped to the ground and half-crushed by his former captor's body. Spain pushed it off him hurriedly, spinning to defend himself from blows from various swords.

"Romano, where's Belgium?" he asked, no trace of his carefree nature left in his voice.

The Italian shivered, probably from fear. "S—she ran away. I think she's safe," Romano replied, more to reassure himself than anything.

Spain nodded. "When you see a clear path, make sure to run as fast as you can. If you can, find Belgium, but don't let yourself be caught. Got it?" As much as he wanted Romano to stay close, so he could keep an eye on him, he was well aware of the fleeing power of the Italies. Once Romano got going, he knew his henchman would never be caught.

Romano nodded in understanding. His face was dreadfully pale, and in any other situation, Spain would have hugged the Italian close and comforted him. But right now he had a house full of intruders who were currently after the South Italy personification and Spain's blood, so the comforting embrace would have to wait.

Instead, Spain gave a faint smile, only a ghost of his usual bright grin. "Good. Now go, and Boss will take care of the minor irritations."

Without checking to see if Romano followed orders, Spain turned his full attention to the soldiers. His ax was a deadly blur as he wielded it with the effectiveness of centuries' worth of practice. The soldiers—with no more than twenty years each—were no match for the nation when he developed a killing intent.

The carnage was horrifying. Not even the more capable North Italy would be able to free the carpet from the blood that dyed it. Spain stood in the center of it, feeling pleased with the work. His knuckles were white from the force he gripped the ax with as he tried to keep his hands from trembling.

Someone tugged at his sleeve. He spun around, ax high in the air in preparation to strike, his eyes wild as it searched the identity of the person.

It was Romano. Spain froze the ax immediately. It hovered by his henchman's head, who stared at him with wide eyes. Those green-brown eyes, full of innocence, wandered Spain's body, taking in his appearance—the clothes, soaked through with the blood of his enemies; the bloodied ax, which nearly killed the innocent Italian he was trying to protect; even the look of grim pleasure adorning his features.

Spain's face quickly adopted a grimace as he imagined the horrifying sight he made. "Romano—," he began, reaching a hand out to stroke Romano's face.

His hand left bloody fingerprints on Romano's pale skin. The Italian broke out of his trance at the contact and quickly jerked away. Without a sound, Romano rushed out of the room.

Spain watched him go, sadly. He couldn't blame little Romano for being so afraid. The half-nation was still so young, and had seen so little.

A wave of nausea attacked him. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. The ax clattered to the ground with a metallic clang. Slowly, he sunk to his knees. This damn cold, getting the better of him when he needed to find Belgium, and the Netherlands, and the nation who commanded this invasion, and the frightened Romano. There was so much to do, when all he could do was kneel among the bodies he cut down.

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><p><strong>I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter as I enjoyed writing it. I love the darker side of Spain.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, this chapter is a lot shorter than the last, but oh well. I know, though, I'll update my other stories as soon as I get out of the rut I sort of stuck myself in with them. Ahaha.**

**I decided Saturdays will be my writing days, and I'll do actual work on Sundays. Perfect, si?**

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><p>Spain had decided after the incident that the best thing to do was to rest his sickly body. Dragging himself to his feet, he wearily cleaned up the many corpses as best he could, spraying bottles of air freshener everywhere to cover up the smell of death. It was difficult work in his sickened state, but it had to be done. For the sake of traumatized Romano, if nothing else.<p>

The next morning, Romano still didn't come running to him. He wandered the house, restless with worry. What if Romano hated him for what he had done? No, that couldn't be right. He was just trying to _protect _his henchman. Romano knew that. He knew that it was completely necessary for Spain to kill all those intruders. Didn't he?

Hours passed, and Spain's anxiety only increased. His house was eerily quiet, even more than usual. Admittedly, it was a large house, and often he could go a long time without running into one of the other three occupants (particularly the Netherlands), but this was just ridiculous. He hadn't heard the crash of a fallen bookshelf, or the clatter of pans falling from the kitchen cabinet.

"Romano?" he called into the house, and waited. Silence answered him.

The Italian was just hiding. That had to be it. Romano was just so shaken up from the previous day that he hid himself under the bed, or the closet, or something. Spain smiled in relief. Of course. He couldn't expect his innocent little henchman to be ready to face him after the first massacre.

"Belgium?" he next called. Once again, his entreaties were met with that eerie silence.

He frowned. That was strange. Where could Belgium be? Maybe she was off doing errands, or shopping, or whatever it was that girls liked to do. It wasn't odd for the female nation to be off doing something on her own, or with one of the other few female nations in the world. She was always back before sun down, so her absence wasn't much concern.

It was Romano he was worried about. He needed to get the Italian out of hiding, in case another invasion came, so he'd know where Romano was and the intruders couldn't sweep his henchman right out from under his feet.

As lunchtime approached, Spain decided to make pizza—the kind with small chunks of tomato in the sauce. It was Romano's favorite, and the smell would be sure to drive him out of hiding.

So Spain set about the business of preparing the pizza. He prepared the dough and went into the backyard to pick some fresh tomatoes. The happy tune he was humming came to a halt when he stepped outside and he froze.

His precious tomato plants were absolutely _trampled_. Not only that, but a few of the plants were uprooted or cut in half. The sight broke his heart, and actual tears sprang to his eyes, seeing his beloved tomatoes ruined—dropped to the ground to rot and brutally squashed for good measure.

Spain loved tomatoes almost as much as he cared for his cute little henchman, and it was probably _because _of Romano that he loved tomatoes. After all, it was Romano who showed him that tomatoes were, in fact, edible, and not filled with deadly toxins that made them fit only for decorative purposes.

"You bastard, how can you just let those beautiful tomatoes waste away there without eating them!" Romano had cried the first time he saw the plants placed upon the windowsills as decorations. He'd said that after Spain prevented him from snatching one of the bright red fruits straight from the plant to devour it whole.

Spain had been taken aback by Romano's reaction, believing he'd saved the Italian from a horribly painful death by poison. "Romano! Just because they're beautiful doesn't mean they're edible! You could die from eating those awful things!" he had replied (although admittedly his henchman probably have only gotten sick, being a half-nation and all), thinking that he'd have a lot to teach his charge if Romano did stupid things such as eating strange objects because of their aesthetic properties.

The response had only seemed to anger Romano even more, and he'd even kicked the Spaniard's shin to demonstrate his frustration.

"Damn it, idiot, tomatoes are not poisonous! I ate them in Italy all the time, before you came along and kidnapped me like the perverted bastard you are!" Romano had said angrily.

Spain had given Romano a puzzled look. "What are you saying? Tomato plants _have _to be poisonous. They look almost exactly like nightshade, and those are _very _toxic," he had explained carefully, as if logic could overrule experience. He conveniently ignored Romano's very ill-formed accusations of his personality and how he'd acquired South Italy in the first place.

Romano had kicked him again. "Dumbass! I've eaten them lots of times! Italians eat them a lot, without ever getting sick! They're perfectly fine!"

After some more arguing (and a few bruises on Spain's shins), Romano convinced Spain to at least _taste_ some tomato soup. Spain had spent the entire next day anticipating the sickness he was certain would come from the toxins, but it never did. So he was forced to admit to Romano that he was wrong, and tomatoes were perfectly ok to eat, and not only that, but they were _delicious_. After that day, Spain had eaten a lot more tomatoes, and even planted an entire garden full of them.

That was all gone now. Because of those damned _invaders_.

The sorrow quickly transformed into heated fury, as Spain concentrated on the knowledge that those soldiers, their bodies now nothing but ash, destroyed the things he held near and dear to his heart. It wasn't only the tomatoes themselves he cared for, but the _memories_ they brought to him. Precious memories, of his precious henchman, and anyone who sought to destroy those deserved a horrible death by his favorite battle ax.

Spain clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palm, painfully marking their place and reminding him were he stood. He let out a careful breath that he hadn't known he was holding, suddenly dizzy with the force of his anger. It made his skin burn and itch to try and control his boiling blood, as he lusted after the painful death of the nation who ordered this invasion.

"I—I need to get Romano out of hiding," he reminded himself in a shaky voice.

Miraculously, a couple plants still survived, albeit with only a few tomatoes a piece. Still, it was more than enough to make the pizza sauce, and Spain gingerly placed each one in the basket he brought out for the purpose of carrying the tomatoes (although he'd expected to fill the basket to the brim with the red fruit).

Soon, the smell of baking pizza filled the kitchen air, and gently wafted throughout the house. Spain waited patiently for when the mouthwatering aroma finally reached Romano, breaking down the Italian's reservations and sending him rushing into the kitchen with the speed of his nation.

The minutes ticked by without any progress on the "Get Romano Out of Hiding" front. In that amount of time, Spain discovered how much he _really_, really _hated _that clock.

Ten minutes later, he demonstrated this hatred by taking his ax to the wall clock, littering the ground with glass and mechanical clock-parts, as if it was to blame for Romano's lack of appearance. Surely it was the clock's fault, with its wicked, steady chants that had to contain some kind of black magic causing Romano to stay away. It was an English-made clock, after all, and knowing England, the clock was probably made for the sole purpose of making Spain's life miserable.

What possessed him to purchase something from _England _in the first place? There must have been something in his wine. Hell, maybe it was the _wine_ itself. It had been a gift from France after all, and although they were friends, he still wanted Romano for himself, and would probably do anything to steal what he wanted from Spain.

That's it; it was definitely a combined conspiracy of France and England. Those bastards.

The smell of something burnt him broke him from his feverish thoughts. With a shout of surprise, he quickly pulled the pizza from the oven (after covering his hands of course, he wasn't quite _that _much in a daze).

"Just great! Now the pizza is ruined!" he shouted, with a frustrated growl. Now he was in a horrible mood, his best friend and worst enemy were probably working together to do him in, and he had nothing to lure Romano out with on the slight chance that the henchman would suddenly appear any minute. On top of that, he still felt like crap!

Today had to be one of the worst days of his life.

With a final glare at the offending clock (damn wine-induced English-purchase clock of doom), he stalked out of the kitchen, feeling absolutely murderous as he went to find Romano himself.

"Romano, where are you?" he called, checking Romano's room, top to bottom. When he saw there was no one in there, he went to Belgium's room, receiving the same results.

If he hadn't been worried before, he definitely was now. The search took on a more frantic tone as he hurried from room to room, flipping over beds in the guest rooms, knocking books from bookshelves (logically, there was no way Romano could hide behind books on the shelf, but Spain decided it was better to not be too careful), and in general making an unnecessarily large mess of his entire house.

His entire, way-too-large-for-only-a-couple-people house.

And Romano was no where to be found.

In fact, not only did it turn out that Romano wasn't in the house, and Belgium off who-knows-where, but the Netherlands seemed to be missing as well.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Someone was messing with his charges.

_His charges._

Whoever stole Romano was going to pay dearly for that fatal mistake. Spain was definitely _not in the mood _for these games.

Breathing heavily, he ran through a quick list of nations who would want to steal Romano from him.

There was England, of course. That tea-drinking, aristocratic, arrogant _bastard _was always looking for ways to make Spain's life miserable.

Turkey—er, the Ottoman Empire—was probably in his "conquer all of Europe in the name of Allah" moods. He never passed up the opportunity to gain land, especially land much sought after such as Italy's.

There was a slight chance that Austria could have taken Romano. He was always saying how Spain was an incompetent fool and simply decided Romano would be better off with his brother.

It could have been that Holy Roman Empire guy, who was always trying to join forces with Italy without realizing that both halves of Italy were _boys_. He may have thought that it would be easier to get to Italy if he had Romano first. Such forceful methods seemed unlikely though.

Spain wouldn't put it past the Netherlands to steal Romano. The Dutchman _hated_ him after all, but there were currently no Dutch troops at the disposal of the Netherlands to organize an invasion, so Spain felt it was safe to say the Netherlands was not the culprit.]

Come to think of it, there were a lot of nations who would be happy to steal away Romano. None of them would think twice about hurting Spain to get him, especially while the once-empire was sick and vulnerable with a weak economy. Even Spain's alleged _best friend_, France, would come up with all sorts of painful plans to wrench Romano from his grasp.

Spain stiffened. That's right. It was definitely something that _coward, weak _friend of his would do. And when he really thought about it, those soldiers did seem a little French…

His fingers slowly tightened around the handle of his ax, which he'd forgotten he'd been holding this entire time.

It would seem he'd be able to decorate the shiny blade with a nation's blood after all.

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><p><strong>Dark!Spain is really wonderful.<strong>

**Do I smell some history in here? I believe tomatoes were "discovered" in the Americas by Hernan Cortez when he conquered the Aztec Empire, and brought back to Europe for decoration purposes. They were believed to be poisonous, since they looked like nightshade, I believe. Only the leaves of the tomato plant are toxic though. If I remember correctly, Italy was one of the first European nations to actually adopt tomatoes as a food nation-wide. But tomatoes weren't red. They were probably yellow, since the Italians called them pomo di'oro (which is were pomodoro comes from, I bet), which means yellow apples (I think).**

**Did you know that, although tomatoes are a huge part of Spain, that the nation isn't even one of the world's top tomato producers? So selfish, right?**

**Well then, that's enough of that. Until next time.**

**Ciao.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I swear, these chapter are getting shorter each time. Sorry about it, really. I'm sure I had a lot more planned out, but after I got busy with other stuff, I guess I forgot some of it. Oh well, I guess. Anyway, here's the next chapter!**

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><p>France was lounging on the couch, sipping at a glass of wine, thinking about his horrible luck with colonies. He couldn't believe that little America chose <em>England<em> of his big brother over _him—_the country of love and amazing cooking. The new nation seemed like the type to fall head-over-heels for anyone with an ounce of cooking abilities, but America had still chosen England. Also known as, the literal worst cook in the _world._

He sighed. America looked like he'd grow up to be such a _handsome _nation, and with the right person raising him (i.e. France), he'd be an amazing lover.

There was still hope for Canada though. Although England once claimed the shier nation as his own along with America, it was obvious that England usually forgot about Canada altogether. It would be an easy matter to swoop in and snatch Canada away while England wasn't looking.

Canada was a strange kid-nation, in more ways than one. Sometimes, it was like he wasn't even there, and when his presence was known, he was helpful and unassuming, preferring to keep to himself and that baby polar bear he loved so much—the one with the name he hadn't yet decided on. Much different from his brother, who wrestled buffalo and made enough noise for both of them combined.

Stranger still, France was _fond _of the kid. He loved Canada in a different way than he felt for anyone else—human and nation, man and woman. France had a genuine desire to protect Canada like a fragile flower, and simply watch him grow into something beautiful. Whenever France thought of Canada growing up, he couldn't imagine trying to sleep with the unimposing nation, as he could with every other.

These feelings were unfamiliar, but not altogether unpleasant.

France was pulled from his reverie by a knocking on his door. No, knocking was an understatement. Whoever decided to visit him was obviously trying to break down his door, the loud booms resounding through the house.

He stared at the front door with open-mouthed shock. Who was so intent on seeing his that they felt the need to destroy the door to do it? For a while, he simply sat, watching the door and listening to the frantic banging, racking his mind to try and figure out who he pissed off lately. In his opinion, he'd been relatively good. Except for that incident involving that man at the bar with his girlfriend that he seduced. But that guy had been a wimp, and didn't seem like the type to try and break into a house in anger.

There was a slight cracking sound as the wood began to give away. France paled slightly. This would probably be a good time to open the door, before his visitor broke in like a raging bull and murdered him.

He approached the door warily, reaching for the doorknob cautiously. The second he twisted it, freeing the door to open at will, it slammed open, nearly killing France as it swung by. He jumped out of its way, but was slammed into the wall by his mystery visitor.

"Ah, m—mon ami! What brings you here?" France couldn't keep his voice from trembling as he tried to great Spain, who now had him pinned against the wall.

The look on Spain's face sent shivers down his spine. "Where's Romano?" he growled, standing so close to France that there was no space between them.

Normally, the position they were in would send waves of pleasure through France's body, but Spain was downright _terrifying_ when he was angry. A quick glance revealed a bloodied ax in Spain's hand. The Spaniard meant business.

"Romano? Why would he be with moi?" France asked, slightly relieved that Romano was the cause of his friend's murderous intent, since France currently had nothing to do with Spain's precious little plaything.

That flutter of relief was literally squashed out of him as Spain pressed hard against France's chest, demonstrating his absolute desire to crush the life out of France.

"Don't play dumb!" he shouted, making France wince slightly at the volume. You ordered an invasion on my house while I was sick and stole Romano when my back was turned!"

"Mon ami, I didn't order any invasion to steal your little toy," France said, for once wishing there was more distance between them.

Spain's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why should I believe that? You're always trying to kidnap Romano," he said.

France made a vague hand motion to indicate the room, with what little movement he could do. "Do you see any half-nations currently tied up and lacking sufficient clothing?" he asked reasonably.

His friend, oblivious as ever even in his anger, actually looked around the room, searching from the floor all the way to the ceiling, as if he thought France would tie someone to the chandelier to hang above them (which, now that France thought about it, was a wonderfully brilliant idea that he'd love to try next time he got his hands on England).

"No," he admitted.

France nodded, almost sagely. "Then I did not kidnap your precious little toy, mon ami" he concluded for Spain.

Spain didn't react to France referring to Romano as his 'precious little toy'. He only gave a guilty little chuckle, some of the anger and murderous intent dissipating. "I guess not."

"Now, if you wouldn't mind giving me a little space? As much as I love being so _deliciously pressed up _against you, that bloody war ax of yours isn't really one of my fetishes, as surprising as it may be," France said, placing a hand on Spain's chest and pushing against him.

The Spaniard allowed himself to be pushed away. "Ah, right, sorry about almost using my ax to rip you to shreds, and then allowing you to heal to repeat the process until you told me where Romano was," he apologized sincerely.

France winced at the image. "I feel bad for whoever took the cute little South Italy from you."

Spain tilted his head, his eyes quickly flashing from confusion to dark fury and back again. "Why would you feel bad? Are you on their side?" His grip tightened on his ax.

Quick to remedy the situation, France held up his hands disarmingly. "No, no, mon ami! I would _never _be on the side of _anyone _you're angry at. That's just suicidal. Because, frankly mon ami, you are absolutely horrifying when you're mad. You could _obliterate _horror itself if you were angry enough," France said honestly.

There was a pause as Spain tried to decipher what France had said. Finally, he seemed to understand the gist of it and gave a genuine smile. "Ah, thank you~!" he said, in the most cheerful voice he used all day.

France shivered slightly. "Don't mention it. Really, don't ever speak of it again. That's just downright creepy, even for you," he said.

Now that the remaining adrenaline he'd built up on the way to France had drained away, Spain felt the full effects of his reckless actions. He swayed dangerously and fell against the opposite wall. The only thing keeping him from falling was his ax, the blade digging into the hardwood floors so he could prop himself up with the handle.

France winced at the sight of his now-ruined floors that matched his newly ruined front door. "Are you ok, mon ami?" he asked, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from the deep scratched wood (oh, he'd spent _so _much money on that expensive wood, to impress the women, and sometimes men, he brought home) and focus on his ailing friend instead.

Spain laughed weakly, his head lolling back against the wall. "Ahaha, of course. It's just my economy," he said unconvincingly.

Trying not to cry and bite despairingly (and dramatically) into his handkerchief (it would be so expensive to get that wood replaced, not to mention the cost of installation, and he could already feel the burning hole in his wallet), France sighed and wrapped a consoling arm around Spain.

"Well, if you're sick, you shouldn't be spending so much energy breaking down doors and threatening innocent nations, you know," France advised, only half-serious with his advice.

Spain pondered what the Frenchman said for a few moments. While he was thinking, France took the opportunity to play with the annoying buttons on the front of Spain's shirt, experimentally popping a few of them open. There was no reaction from the Spaniard, so France took that as a green light and tugged at the shirt to open it completely in one go. Some of the buttons ripped off and clattered to the floor. He paid little attention to it, but Spain noticed the sound and looked down.

"Ah, my shirt got ruined again," he said in that slightly confused tone, like he wasn't sure how exactly it happened.

Leave it to the Spaniard to only notice the minor facts. Not that France minded, as he shrugged and slid a hand over Spain's now-bare chest. "I've told you plenty of times to just leave the shirts unbuttoned, so this problem doesn't happen," he said.

Spain almost pouted. "But whenever I do, Belgium gets red like she has a fever, so I thought the sight of my chest might make her feel sick," he said reasonably.

France sighed. "It doesn't make her sick. You just don't understand women," he replied.

That statement confused Spain more than it should have. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked.

France waved his question off. "Never mind. Just focus on who could have Romano, since it's obviously now me," he said.

Spain blanched. "Right. Who do you think has him?" he asked.

"As much as I love being the one you look up to, I have no idea," France said. "Nor do I see any reason to help you get back that cute little colony."

The Spaniard grabbed the front of France's shirt, his eyes filled with desperation. "Please, France! Who do you think has him? I need to get Romano back before he gets hurt!"

France thought about the way Spain nearly killed him for suspecting that he had Romano, and it gave him a great idea. One that would get him a precious little colony in return. "Have you checked in on England yet?" he asked.

Spain shook his head, and France's excitement grew.

"Well, then, I guess that's your next stop," France said with a grin. "In fact, since I'm such a great friend, I'll even go with you to help look for your precious little Romano."

Spain's face lit up. He launched himself at France in a gleeful hug of gratitude. "Oh really? Thank you! You're a great friend!" he said to the surprised, but pleased, France.

"Don't mention it, mon ami. I'll be glad to help."

Soon, Canada would be his.

* * *

><p><strong>Um, yeah, that ending was definitely not supposed to happen. I guess France will have a greater role in the story than I originally though. And I guess the story will have more chapters than I thought, too.<strong>

**Oh well. Until next time, ciao~!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I swear, this chapter was extremely hard to write! Even when I made time to try and write this chapter, I just couldn't get it out properly. First, Spain was too cheerful, then he was too creepy, then France was too much of a wimp... I rewrote it three times. I'm fairly satisfied with how it turned out.**

**I threw all semblance of historical accuracy out the window with this chapter. Doesn't matter, had fun. And this fic is almost over! One more chapter, I believe. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"So here's the plan," France whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close to Spain. Which was actually a bit difficult, since there was a branch currently stabbing him in the chest. There was also one sticking into his lower back and neck. Hiding in the bushes was probably not the best idea he'd ever have.<p>

Spain stopped him before he could say anything. "I've got a better one. I go in there and start liberating the English bastard of his limbs until he gives Romano back to me. And if that doesn't work, I've got plenty of fun torture tools at my house to continue the game."

This silenced France. He stared at his psychopath of a friend, the deep disturbance he felt plain on his face.

The lack of response seemed to worry Spain a bit. The Spaniard's face softened slightly, although his dark side was still strong. "¿_Qué? _Is that plan not good?" he fretted, twisting his hands nervously around the ax handle.

France forced himself to speak. "N—no. That's not really a good plan at all. What if England _doesn't _have Romano?" he said.

Spain pouted. "I think it's a very good plan. And if he _doesn't _have Romano…" He paused to allow a creepy smile to spread across his face. "… then I'm sure the world won't miss that bastard of a nation."

_He's insane. I'm friends with an idiotic psychopath,_ France thought with a shiver. "S—still…"

Said psychopath gave France a suspicious look. "You're not making fun of me inside your mind, are you?" he asked warily.

It was frightening how perceptive Spain's dark side could be at times. France shook his head vigorously. "Of course not, _mon ami_!" He just barely managed to keep his voice even, instead of squealing like a frightened little school girl.

Spain shrugged France's denials off, peeking out from the bush at the large mansion that served as England's home. "What do you think I should do? What if Romano's in there right now, being tortured?" His eyes widened. "I need to go rescue him!" he shouted, jumping to his feet.

France pulled Spain back down, but only with great effort. "Don't worry, I'm sure Romano's fine. England won't torture him, trust me," he said. Besides, if Romano was in there, then it was more likely that he'd be playing with America and Canada than being harmed in any way.

Unless England decided to cook for them…

The horrifying thought made him shiver. He needed to rescue Canada from that dreadful place quickly! Then he'd treat the poor little nation to some real food!

Spain dropped his ax to grab onto France's shoulders. "What's the plan, _amigo_? I'll do anything to save my henchman!" he cried.

France pushed back the perverted thoughts that came to his mind. This wasn't the time to take advantage of his oblivious friend's desperation (maybe next time…). He needed to focus if he wanted to take Canada back!

"Very well, but you have to follow the plan _exactly_ and _not _go rampaging like some idiotic murderous fool," France said slowly, just to make sure Spain understood every word of it.

His eyes wide with absolute trust in France's abilities, Spain nodded quickly. "¡_Sí_! I'll do everything exactly as you tell me, I swear!" he promised.

"Good. It's very simple what you have to do, but you have to do it properly. All you have to do is go up to the door and request to see England. The servant should take you to one of those ridiculous tea rooms that he's so fond of. Once you and England are alone, then you can ask about Romano. If he insists he doesn't know anything, then you can go ahead and smash up his precious china in revenge," France began.

Even though he was careful to speak in a way that Spain could easily understand, the sick nation looked confused. "Why would I hurt China? I'm sure he's done nothing wrong yet. He even lets me buy wonderful silks from him sometimes!" Spain said.

"No, not China the country. I'm talking about the pottery material," France explained with a light groan of annoyance.

"Oh, ok, I got it. Why should I break his dishes, instead of breaking his bones?" Spain asked, genuinely curious.

"Trust me. Watching his expensive plates and tea cups break will be much more painful that anything your ax can do. Just stick to the plan, please!" France added when Spain looked doubtful. It was blasphemy that anything could be more painful than his beloved ax.

Unless it was watching his little henchman suffer. But then he would use his ax to destroy whoever hurt poor Romano. Which was exactly what he planned to do now!

"What if I run out of pottery to smash?" Spain asked.

France sighed, waving his hand in dismissal. "Then do whatever you want, I don't care." By then, he and Canada would be long gone anyway.

Spain nodded. "I'll do everything exactly as you said!" he told France, jumping to his feet and snatching up his ax.

"God speed, Spain," France replied.

He watched as his friend dashed up to the front door, ax in hand. The man who opened the door gave an audible shout that France could hear from the bush he hid in. He tried to slam the door shut on the Spaniard, but the ax-wielding man put his foot in the way. France winced as he watched this. That _had _to hurt.

Eventually, Spain "convinced" the servant to let him in to see England, and disappeared inside the house. As soon as the door swung shut, France stood. Time to put his own plan into action.

France walked around the side of the house, trying a couple windows. Most were locked, but he found one that slid open easily. He grinned as he climbed into the house. Silly England. He should know by now that he needed to lock _all _the windows and doors, and plug up that surprisingly clean chimney of his, if he wanted to have _any _hope at _all _of keeping the clever Frenchman out.

Triumphant, he dusted himself off and detangled random leaves and twigs from his hair. He was never going to hide in a bush again. It was horribly hard on his silky locks.

He shook his head. Enough of that. It was time to search for those adorable little North American brothers living in this pompous house.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to search for very long. Within five minutes of entering the house, France heard an obnoxious voice shout, "And the hero takes off to save the damsel in distress!" followed by quickly running feet.

Two little boys dashed around the corner. One of them was wearing a sheet around his neck and holding his arms straight out in front of him. The other was clutching a tiny polar bear, panting hard as he tried to keep up with his brother.

"Wait, America! It's my turn to be the hero! You promised!" Even while yelling, the second boy's voice was just too soft.

America didn't appear to hear Canada over his own loud laugh. "Super America to the rescue!" he proclaimed. He looked back to the other boy. "Come on, trusty sidekick, we have to—Oof!" America ran into France's leg and fell back onto the floor.

France couldn't resist a chuckle. England must have a hard time dealing with the obnoxious little boy. France felt lucky that he got sweet Canada, if only for a little while.

"Ouch, that really hurt!" America said accusingly, looking up with an adorable pout. His eyes widened when he saw that he'd bumped into France, and not one of the servants like he'd been expecting. "Hey, you're that frog!"

France felt a headache forming. "Obviously you've been spending too much time with that idiot, England," he muttered furiously.

America laughed carelessly. "Big brother is much better and stronger than you'll ever be!" he proclaimed.

"As if! He just wishes he was!"

France's protests didn't phase America one bit. The boy stood up and adjusted the sheet so it wouldn't choke him. "Whatever, frog. I've got a damsel in distress to save. See ya!" And without even seeing if Canada would follow, America dashed off, as if he'd forgotten all about his brother.

Now that America was gone, France turned his attention to Canada with a gentle smile. "How are you doing here, little one?" he asked.

Canada's eyes widened in surprise. He clutched the bear to his chest in a weak display of excitement. "You're talking to me?" he asked in disbelief.

"But of course," France said. "I can't forget about my cute little colony so easily."

A small blush of pure happiness colored Canada's pale cheeks. "So you can see me? I'm not invisible?"

France ruffled the boy's hair, managing to draw a giggle from him that was so much more subdued than America's. "Of course your not invisible, silly boy! Who told you that?" he asked.

Canada's face darkened and he looking down. He absently played with his polar bear's fur. "Well, no one ever sees me around here. Even America, my own brother, forgets that I exist."

He looked so distraught that France had to kneel down to envelope the boy in an affectionate hug. "You're not invisible to me, Canada. You'll never be," France told him, stroking his hair soothingly.

Canada buried his face in France's shoulder. "Thank you," he murmured in a muffled voice.

After a while, France finally pulled away. A kind smile lit up his expression—the soft, gentle smile reserved only for this dear little nation. "Would you like to come back to my house? I'll take good care of you," he said.

The quiet boy was glowing with emotion. "Yes! Please! I would love to!" he whisper-yelled. France was fascinated by the way Canada's emotions shone from his eyes so plainly. He was just so innocent… It made France feel the overwhelming need to protect him.

France took Canada's hand. "Let's go then," he said.

Somewhere in the house, there was a loud crash and the sound of breaking china. Canada looked in the direction of the sound, obviously alarmed. France laughed nervously.

"England didn't happen to bring home a little boy named Romano, did he? Romano is South Italy," France asked.

Canada looked up at him thoughtfully, then shook his head. "No, England hasn't taken any kids since he took me away from you." A shadow passed over the boy's face and his grip on France's hand tightened a fraction.

France ran his thumb over the back of his hand comfortingly. "Well, if he didn't, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," he said, leading Canada to the window that he'd entered through.

There was another crash. France hoped that his friend wasn't _actually _stupid enough to try and _dismember _England, since the island nation hadn't taken Romano after all (not that France ever thought he had).

Then again, Spain was _pretty _dense. Oh well…

* * *

><p><strong>Phew, the penultimate chapter done with! I'll try to get the last one done ASAP! I think I've got an ending pretty much planned out already. I think... I'm going to leave Spain's side of the story out with this one. I think it's pretty obvious what happened (don't worry, he doesn't physically harm England too much!).<strong>

**Ciao for now~!**


	5. Chapter 5

By now, Spain was utterly depressed. He was sitting on some bench somewhere, head in his hands as he fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea. His head throbbed in pain and he forced himself to sit upright.

This wasn't right. He shouldn't be trekking across the entire _world_ because some suicidal idiot decided to attack his house and make off with his precious little henchmen. And he _especially _shouldn't have to had deal with his worst enemy, just to find out that the bastard _didn't _have Romano after all, and _then _(as if all that wasn't enough) said bastard decided to _charge him _for all the expensive china he broke. As if he could even afford that!

To say the least, Spain felt especially murderous right now. Or at least he _would _feel that way, except he was actually miserable from the amount of pain he was in. He didn't even notice that France had ditched him.

Spain sighed, hanging his head. His ax was propped up against the bench next to him. Even the ornament weapon seemed to mirror its master's mood, somehow exuding an aura of misery.

"I'm going to gut whoever kidnapped my henchman," he told the ax, but his heart wasn't in his words. By now, he just wanted Romano back in his house, and then Spain would take a week-long nap. His ax seemed to sense this, and remained silent. Not that it would have made noise if it _couldn't _read the atmosphere. Spain knew that inanimate objects usually didn't talk.

Except whenever he was in England (the country, not the person, he thought with a shudder), strange things that usually didn't happen sometimes actually happened. Although thankfully inanimate objects hadn't started talking yet.

Speaking of England, it probably hadn't been such a good idea to start breaking his pottery like that, in retrospect. The memory made him shiver with suppressed rage.

* * *

><p><em>*Flashback*<em>

Spain knocked on the door, adjusting his grip on his ax. He could barely wait to hack off England's limbs. The door opened, and a servant's face appeared.

"Could I help you, sir?" the man asked stiffly. Figures. It was fitting of England to have such stuffy servants.

The Spaniard gave a feral grin. "Yes, I'd like to speak to England for a moment in private."

There was probably a significant amount of bloodlust in his tone, because the man's eyes widened a bit in alarm. The servant looked over Spain and finally saw the ax. With a yelp, he jumped back and attempted to slam the door shut.

Fortunately, Spain was ready for this, since for some reason humans tended to try and slam the door in his face quite often. He simply stuck his foot out, not even wincing when it was squeezed painfully against the frame.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. After all, I just want to _talk_, and if you continue to piss me off like this, _talking _isn't all I'll be doing," Spain said, no trace of humor on his face.

He watched as the servant began to sweat, uncertain of whether to let this psycho into the mansion. Finally, the man decided either that his master was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, or that Spain would be able to break into the house either way, so shutting him out was useless. He stepped back, allowing the door to swing open to permit Spain entrance.

"Very well, sir, follow me," he said nervously.

Spain followed the servant into some tea room on the other side of the house. He was pleased to note that there was a particularly expensive-looking case of decorative china pushed up against the wall.

"Would you like some tea while I fetch Mr. England for you?" the servant asked, out of custom. He sounded like he was hoping that Spain would say 'no', so the two could part ways permanently as soon as possible.

Luckily for him, Spain hated the idea of consuming anything English. If England's cooking was bad, he didn't even want to try the nation's drinks. Making a disgusted face, Spain shook his head. "Just get England in here."

Normally, the reaction would have been offensive to a proper Englishman. Considering the circumstances, however, the servant was grateful for the brush off. He bowed. "Very well, sir, right away." With that, he disappeared from the room, and out of Spain's life.

Not too long later, England entered the tea room. There was a sword at his waist, Spain noted. The servant had doubtlessly informed him that the "guest" was armed, although apparently not who the guest was, as England's eyes narrowed when he saw Spain.

"What do you want, you bloody wanker?" England demanded. He didn't move farther into the room than he had to, lingering by the closed door.

Spain smirked, although his eyes were cold. "Why are you all the way over there? Afraid of my ax here?" he asked, leaning casually against the wall.

England scoffed. "As if! Why are you here? Do you want me to destroy your precious little toy boats again?" he retorted.

All pretexts of a smile vanished off Spain's face. "Bastard, just admit that you attacked my house and kidnapped Romano!" he snarled.

Again, England scoffed. "As much as I'd love to attack your pathetic excuse of a home, you don't pose any threat to me right now, so I don't feel the need to attack you. Besides, why would I want the worthless southern part of Italy? It's poor and can't bring me any profits."

Spain pushed against the wall, stomping over to England. "Bastard, don't say those things about Romano! There are many great things about him! Like… Like…" He knew there was _something _about Romano that was good; he was just having trouble coming up with them.

Then he remembered how Romano worked so hard to make sure Spain didn't have to do too much work while he was sick. Although the tiny nation often made things worse, at least he _tried_. Right?

"He is very kind, and tries to take care of me when I'm not feeling well!"

England laughed mockingly. "Now you're so desperate that you're becoming a pedophile? You've sunk so low, Spain."

The words stung Spain. Gritting his teeth, he swung his ax as hard as he could at England. "Shut up!" he shouted. He'd never do that to Romano. Romano was his special little henchman, and he wouldn't allow anyone to even suggest that he'd soil the innocent little child-nation.

Even with all the strength behind the swing, England easily blocked the ax, sliding his sword easily from his hilt. "You've gotten weak, Spain," he said, looking coldly into the Spaniard's eyes. He pushed Spain away with his foot. "If you're here to pick a fight, I'll happily give it to you."

Spain staggered back a few feet. It was true. He even _felt _weaker than he used to be. It was England's fault as well. Damn bastard, keeping him weak even after defeating the Spanish Armada. He looked around for something he could use to throw England off-balance. His eyes landed on the cases of decorative china, and he remembered what France told him about breaking it. Grinning, he swung his ax again, this time through the glass, shattering thousands of dollars worth of cups and plates and such.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, you git?" England shouted.

Spain laughed. "Good to see you lose your composure over something so _stupid_!" The final word came out strained as he swung his ax a second time with a satisfying crash.

"Stop it, wanker! Do you know how bloody expensive all of that precious china is?" England demanded.

Before Spain could swing another time, the door slammed open, and a small child ran in. Spain paused, taking a moment to register the appearance of the child, with a long billowing sheet tied around his neck.

"America! I told you to stay away when I have guests!" England scolded him, trying to put himself between Spain and the child.

It was a vain effort as America dodged around England's legs, ignoring his caretaker. "Don't worry, England! The hero is here to save his damsel in distress!" he said, striking a ridiculous pose.

"America, will you leave? Wait, who's the damsel in distress?" England was offended by the very prospect of being helpless.

Spain couldn't help but laugh. "Some kid you've got, England."

America spread his arms wide. "If you want to hurt England, you've got to get through me!"

"I told you to go away!" England said, picking up the child-nation and forcibly moving him out of the room. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it before America could come back in.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt America. It was worth coming to see him call you a 'damsel in distress'." Spain said, snickering.

England glared, cheeks red from embarrassment. "I'm going to make you pay for all that china, git!" he said.

It was still worth it.

_*Flashback End*_

* * *

><p>"You appear to be in need of guidance." A woman's voice broke through his reverie.<p>

Spain looked up to see a woman with dark, neatly braided hair and deep, dark eyes that looked right through him. She wore gold hoops in her ears and colorful skirts that billowed about in the wind. He recognized her as a Romany fortune teller.

"What if I am?" he asked cautiously, grabbing his ax for good measure.

She didn't even glance at it. Instead, she gave him a mysterious smile that unnerved him, like she knew more than he knew himself. "If you come to my house, I'll read your cards, and perhaps the reading will help guide you on the right path."

Spain regarded the gypsy with suspicion. He had bad experiences with her kind. "Aren't you just trying to rob me of my money?" he pointed out.

The woman smiled again, her dark eyes filled with some mysterious warmth that made him want to trust her unconditionally. "Many today believe that gypsies are con artists and swindlers, and many more will come to believe so in the future," she said.

He sighed heavily. "Well, I've got no money to give you, so—."

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "I don't ask for money from the troubled. It will be a free reading of any question you'd like," she said.

"Troubled? What makes you think I'm troubled?"

Her laugh was light, but not mocking. "Anyone can sense it from a mile away," she said.

Although he still felt suspicious of this woman, he decided that a free reading couldn't hurt anyone. He nodded. "Fine, I'll get a reading," he said grudgingly.

Still smiling, she led him inside her small home. It surprised him. He would have thought that a gypsy fortune teller would live in a small, heavily-perfumed tent. Instead, it was a normal house that looked, well, _normal_, albeit with the faint smell of incense. She led him into an equally normal kitchen and sat him down at a normal-looking table.

Frankly, the normalcy scared him a bit.

She sat down across from him, producing a small deck of cards. "Now, dear, tell me what question is eating away at you." Her eyes twinkled like the gold hoops in her ears.

Spain hesitated, unsure of how much he could tell her. "I'm… missing someone very important to me. I don't know where to look for them," he said carefully.

She nodded understandingly, not even commenting on the fact that he didn't even ask a question. "I'm sure my cards will be able to provide you with the answers you need. First, draw pairs of cards until one of the two is a king of hearts."

He had to go through half the deck of cards until finally the pair was the queen and king of hearts, in that order. He handed the pair to the woman, who laid them face-up and put the deck back together.

"Because the king of hearts is the second card, the reading will be intuitive. Meaning, the answer will be within you," she told him.

Spain couldn't suppress a growl of frustration. "That doesn't help me any!" he yelled.

She wasn't frightened by his outburst, or the way he swung his heavy ax carelessly around. It was as if she was certain that he would not harm her. "Dear, calm down. The reading is not quite over."

"Oh." Embarrassed, he sat back down, and meekly chose three cards, as instructed by her when she fanned out the remainder of the deck.

The woman took the cards from him and placed them in a column beneath the pair. The ace of hearts was on top, followed by the seven of spades, then finally the jack of clubs. She furrowed her eyebrows slightly.

"What is it?" he asked her, feeling slight trepidation.

She shook her head. "The answer appears to be a little unclear. Please choose one more card," she commanded. When he did so, it was the ace of spades. She nodded.

"I do not know how you will like this, but this is your answer." She pointed to the first ace. "This card has several meanings, but in the case of your question, it should be thought of as a house." Next came the seven. "This card means you will have to make a decision, possibly a tough one." Spain was beginning to understand what she meant by the answer being unclear while she explained the jack. "This card represents a friend, and this one," she said, pointing to the final ace, "means that there will be sad news because of this entire affair."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "And that makes the answer more clear?" He felt more frustrated than before.

The gypsy nodded. "Trust me, dear. Any extra cards will only bring more confusion," she said wisely.

Spain sighed. "So, Romano will be at a friend's house… And I will have to make a decision because of it?" Probably it would be whether to kill the bastard or not.

She only smiled, except this time it was a little sadly. "No matter what the decision, the outcome will only bring sorrow. Please choose wisely, dear," she told him.

He stood up. "Thank you, ma'am, I'll be careful," he said, picking up his ax. Spain failed to notice the worried glance the fortune-teller cast the weapon.

"Come again if you are ever in need of guidance."

As he left her house, he felt even more lost than before, his mind filled with nothing but the cards. Spain frowned deeply. Romano was at a friend's house. A friend? Like Prussia? He shook his head. Prussia was much too busy with other things, as the Germanic nation always said (although Spain had no idea what those 'other things' Prussia could be doing). Besides, Prussia always said how Romano was 'totally unawesome' and just downright unpleasant to be around. Austria was the one who pawned Romano off on him, saying one half of Italy was annoying enough, and Hungary generally just went with anything Austria said.

Spain chewed his lip. He had already gone to France's house, and he didn't have many friends beyond that. Perhaps… it was one of the nations he lived with? Belgium? But the female nation _lived with him_, and it wouldn't make sense for her to attack his home and run off with Romano. And obviously Romano didn't kidnap himself.

He groaned. Turkey was a possible culprit, but he wasn't anywhere near being Spain's friend. Maybe it was someone who recently moved out of his house?

The Netherlands.

Spain froze when the name suddenly popped into his mind. It was true that he had considered the Netherlands his 'friend', more or less. And the Netherlands had recently received partial sovereignty and moved into his own house.

The more Spain thought about the Netherlands betraying him in that way, the more everything made sense.

His grip on the ax by now was so tight that his knuckles were bone white. He couldn't see through the fury he felt. How dare the Netherlands go and betray him, after he was kind enough to allow him to live by himself! And he kidnapped Romano, after attacking his house and making Spain frighten his henchman while protecting them all! It was absolutely unforgivable!

He was going to kill that backstabbing bastard!

* * *

><p>Even though Spain hadn't been to the Netherlands new house before, he found it easily. There was little you couldn't do with a little gentle persuading, and sometimes a suggestive glance at your ax.<p>

He didn't bother with knocking, since he was already so sure that Romano was in the house. Instead, he broke the door down with the ax.

"S—Spain?" Belgium was in the front hall. She backed up quickly.

Spain turned his angry gaze on her. "Where is your brother?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.

She gulped. "He's in the living room. What are you going to do? Oof!" Spain pushed her out of the way. "Spain! What are you doing?"

He didn't answer her. He thought it was quite obvious what he was going to do, as he continued walking straight down the hall. There were doors that branched off in other directions, but he ignored them, as they were unlikely to take him to his destination.

Luckily, he was saved the trouble of hunting down the living room as the Netherlands appeared from around the corner, probably to see what was going on. He paled when he saw Spain coming at him, and started to turn around to run the other direction. Spain didn't allow him the chance. He knocked the traitor flat on his back, pressing the edge of his ax to the Netherlands's neck.

"Where is Romano?" he demanded.

The Netherlands swallowed hard, staring nervously at the ax. "I didn't take him or anything."

Spain pressed down slightly. "Liar. I know your soldiers attacked my house. There's no one else that it could be. _Admit it!_" he said.

"Yes! That was me! How else was I supposed to get my sister out of your oppressive rule?" he shouted, unusually brave for someone with an ax at their throat.

He increased the pressure. A thin red line appeared, and the Netherlands paled. "I know Romano is here. I'm going to ask one more time. _Where is my henchman_?"

"S—Spain?"

Spain looked up to see Romano peeking around the corner, eyes wide in fright and shivering uncontrollably. He looked down at the Netherlands, then back up at Romano, beginning to understand why he would have to make a hard decision. Kill the traitor, frighten Romano, and infuriate Belgium, or risk another attack?

Romano ran over to Spain, hugging his leg. "Stop it! Don't kill him! He didn't kidnap me, dammit!" he cried, clutching his pants tightly.

Now Spain was thoroughly confused. "What? If he didn't kidnap you, why are you here?"

The child-nation looked up at him tearfully. "I—I heard Belgium scream, a—and so I went to l—l—look for her. And then I saw her with him, and they were leaving, a—and I wanted to know where they were g—going, so I went with them, but I was going to come back so don't be mad!" he said, voice trembling.

Spain looked back at Belgium. She looked down, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Spain. I wanted my independence, and I asked my brother to help me out," she said.

"And you had to go and scream, even though you knew I was coming for you," the Netherlands said, although he still sounded nervous since Spain hadn't yet removed the ax.

Belgium stomped her foot indignantly. "Well, you surprised me with all your scary-looking soldiers!"

Spain was at a loss. He looked from Belgium, to the Netherlands, to Romano. The former two had betrayed him. He should kill them, or punish them somehow. Then he looked down at Romano, who was looking up at him with pleading eyes, still filled with tears.

They betrayed him! His friends! But, he _tried _to reason with himself, Romano was safe and well. They hadn't hurt him in any way.

In the end, it came down to whether he wanted to scare Romano even more by killing the people the Italian still cherished. He definitely didn't want that.

Spain got off of the Netherlands, moving his ax away from the fallen nation. The traitor of a nation scrambled to his feet, grateful that he escaped with a small paper cut-type scratch on his neck.

"I'll let you two off this time, but," he added, moving close to growl into the Netherlands's ear, "if you come anywhere near my home again, I will not hesitate to kill you both and destroy your lands."

With that, he backed away, a falsely sweet smile on his face. "Come on, little henchman~! Let's go home and pick some tomatoes and make churros together~!" he said brightly, picking up Romano.

Romano looked relieved. He grinned, nodded. "My churros will be much better than yours!" he declared.

Spain laughed; his smile more genuine already. It was amazing how Romano could brighten his mood, without actually trying. "I'm sure they will be, but go easy on me, ok~?" he said, leaving the house through the broken front door.

"We'll see!"

Spain was definitely happy to have Romano back, even with this bittersweet end. His friends betrayed him, but at least his special henchman was still by his side.

* * *

><p><strong>Aaaaaaand, that's it! Did I surprise you? I hope I did. But, more importantly, I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry if it ended a little quickly. ^-^<strong>

**In case you were curious about the fortune-telling method I used:**

**I got a deck of Hetalia playing cards in the mail. Since I know you can do fortune telling with playing cards, I googled a couple spreads and the meanings of each card.**

**The spread I used in this fic is an actual Romany spread, used with a 32-card deck, which is all the face cards, the aces, and numbers from 7-10. The results I used were ones that I actually got when I decided, "Hey, I'm going to pretend I'm Spain from this fic and see what I get." Since I had this chapter planned out before I did it, it was a little scary when it actually turned out to be true. So I added it in!**


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